Awakened
by nonsequiturvy
Summary: In which Robin sleeps, and dreams, and makes love to Regina. Alternate ending to Bed. Missing Year.
Robin wakes three times throughout the course of the night.

He's first pulled from sleep by the sensation of something heavy on his chest, and through a dimly conscious haze he's able to identify that something as Regina's arm.

It takes another second to gather the rest of his bearings – the tent that isn't his, these blankets, that low-burning oil lamp sitting by her bed. The woman he's holding, with her temper and her tongue, who doesn't belong to him any more than the trees do, the forest, the sky that follows a thunderstorm, or any number of other natural wonders in this world.

And yet here she is, every bared and glorious inch of her, intimately pressed along one side of his body, a leg draped across his knee, arm thrown over his chest. Her hair, wild from sleep and other things, pools in waves over the pillows, and if he shifts just so, he can trace the tip of his nose, feather-light, along her cheekbone.

Her skin smells vaguely of sweat, and sex, and he feels himself stirring at the memory of her body sliding with his between the sheets, the two of them wandering, together, in blissful, endless abandon.

Robin moves gingerly, mindful not to disturb her, until he's half-turned toward her sleeping form, resting her head in the bend of his elbow while he tasks his other arm with gently rearranging the hair from her face.

Considering that Regina's never allowed him into her bed before, much less spend the night, he rather thinks he'll stay awake a while, and savor this moment, the view. The Queen without all her trappings, her war paint and her armor. Her reasons for why they can't just be as they are, like this, wrapped up in one another while the world outside them blurs and fades.

…

He must have dozed off watching her, for he's eventually straying back into consciousness again – some hours later, judging by the dwindling lamplight – and this time, it seems he's not alone in that regard.

Her side of the bed is still warm, but he needn't look far to know where she's gone; in fact, looking anywhere at all but the backs of his eyelids suddenly presents a bit of a problem as Robin's senses are diverted down, down, where he finds himself at the mercy of clever hands, an even cleverer mouth.

A groaning "Gods – Regina…" is the extent of what he can get out, and he's helpless to the exquisite tension gripping his body, anchoring his limbs to her bed as she steadily licks her way up his stiffening cock. His muscles avidly object to any attempt to move them, spent as he is after long hours of ensuring she'd been well seen-to earlier, though he supposes – _mmm_ – that turnabout _is_ fair play, after all, and who better than the erstwhile Evil Queen to attend to such matters of pure, magnificent agony?

"You were touching yourself while you slept," she informs him, voice throaty, eyes dark and dangerous when he finally manages to prop himself up on his elbows, gazing down at the sight before him. He's hard in her hand now, moisture pearling at the tip, and he swallows heavily, riveted, as she leans tortuously over him, her silhouette aglow in firelight while she licks him clean.

"I must have been dreaming of you," he flirts – needlessly, but never able to resist it, with her. His smile is half-crooked, slackening slightly when she sees fit to punish him for it, and she takes the length of him into her mouth, swirling her tongue in a way that has him nearly losing his mind.

Her hands are skillful (sinful) things, cupping him, stroking where her lips can't touch, quelling his hips with a firm, scolding grip when they begin to rock and meet her halfway. He lasts another second longer before the pressure builds to something intolerably close to the edge, and he eases her back to a pace he can manage, steady, slow and…gods…

"Come here," he murmurs, reaching, wanting more of her (all of her, always), and she hums a response, siren-like, that he _feels_ more than anything else, a shuddering tremor of pleasure while she shimmies up his torso into his open arms. His mouth finds her neck on instinct, his palms the curve of her spine, and nothing has felt as _gods, so good_ as this, them. Her.

"Robin," she breathes, and lets him flip their bodies, pressing her deep into the bed, sweeping pillows aside as he goes. His muscles protest, but her breasts are so very distracting, cushioned against his chest as they are, and perhaps she _can_ be his, like this, soft curves and softer sighs, this side of her she's willingly shown him.

Her pulse is erratic beneath his lips, and he traces the point to its origin. It beats out a rhythm that thrills madly, tellingly, to his touch, and maybe, yes, she'll give this to him too someday – her heart, so long (so well) protected from thieving hands, and men who claim that they have honor.

He does.

He does.

He does.

The sounds he will steal from her, without hesitation.

A gasping moan for each teasing bite of her nipple, every curl of a finger (then two) into the slickness between her thighs. His name, caught and caught again in her throat that breathless first moment when he sinks into her, deep and deeper still.

He's unsure where he ends and she begins, if they haven't always been two halves of the same whole, aimless and drifting, lost to the other until fate finally deemed the timing right between them.

Her nails dig too-sharp at his back when he rolls his hips into hers just – like – that, and she's all babbling warmth and broken apologies and " _Oh_ …Robin… _yes_ , don't stop," arching beneath him, tightening, trembling, coming apart in rapturous increments, and he's no intention of stopping.

He throbs all over for her, keening with the unbearable ache of his own approach toward ecstasy, and gods if he could only have her like this, over and over, making love until day breaks, fucking again come late morning.

Their kisses turn long, languid, a luxurious movement of salty-sweet lips and tongue. Their heaving chests begin to settle, bodies still joined, hips still pulsing steadily into the other's, the pleasure lingering like waves at sea – ebbing and flowing, depthless in their slow, inevitable return to shore.

…

The pangs in his muscles have gone by the time he wakes once more. Squinting through the muted light of dawn, Robin's not able to make out much beyond the pillows piled high beside him, slightly chilled to the touch when he reaches to tuck one behind his head.

It's soft, softer than he's used to, and he's puzzled by it for a moment, contemplating, until his vision brightens enough to register the black beads it has for eyes, the plush rotundness of a monkey's face, a monkey's belly and limbs.

Drowsily, he blinks up at the roof of his tent, then to the softly snoring lump of blankets over in one corner.

Roland.

There's a hollowing in Robin's chest, a telltale stickiness to his thighs as he shifts in the bed, and he knows he's dreamt of her again. Her tender side, the truth to her heart she likes to keep hidden. That fire inside her that leaves him burning, always, wanting what she's not quite willing, not yet, to give him.

Gods, but what a dream it had been.


End file.
